Chapter Eight #2
“He died when I was fourteen. Fell off a ladder at a job site.” Dusty picked at a splinter on the porch step.
“But he was already gone by then, you know? The pills, the drinking… he was just trying to quiet everything down enough to keep working. Keep providing. Keep being the man everyone needed him to be.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.” He glanced at me, and there was something raw in his expression.
“That's why I'm here. Not to save you or fix you or any of that savior complex bullshit you accused me of.
I'm here because I watched my dad disappear into a pill bottle, and I couldn't do anything about it. I was just a kid.”
The confession hung between us. I understood what he was really saying, that this was personal for him too, that he was just as scared as I was but for different reasons.
“What if I can't do this?” I asked. “What if I'm not strong enough?”
“You are. You're doing it right now.” He bumped his shoulder against mine. “And you're not alone in it. That's the difference.”
Something in my chest loosened at that. Not alone. Such simple words, but they carried weight I hadn't realized I needed. I'd spent months feeling isolated—in my injury, in my coming out, in my fear about the future. Even at The Ranch, surrounded by people, I'd felt fundamentally alone.
But sitting here on these old porch steps, Dusty's shoulder warm against mine, his own fear and hope laid bare… I didn't feel alone anymore.
“I'm sorry I was an asshole on the trail,” I said. “The savior complex thing. That wasn't fair.”
“You're going through hell. You're allowed to be an asshole.” He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
“Besides, you're not entirely wrong. I do have this thing where I think I can help everyone.
It's why I've been at The Ranch for seven years instead of opening my gallery. Always one more person who needs me, one more reason to put my own shit on hold.”
“Is that what this is? You putting your shit on hold for me?”
“No.” The answer came quick, certain. “This is different.”
“How?”
He met my eyes, and something passed between us that had nothing to do with therapy or healing or any of the roles we'd been playing. “I don't know yet. But it is.”
The air between us was charged, heavy with things neither of us were ready to name. My hands had stopped shaking. And for the first time since we'd arrived at this cabin, I felt like maybe I could actually do this, not because I was strong enough alone, but because I wasn't alone.
“Come on,” Dusty said, standing and holding out his hand. “Let me show you something.”
I let him pull me up, following him around the side of the cabin to where the land sloped down toward a narrow creek. The water was clear over limestone rocks, creating those small waterfalls that caught the light. Oak trees clustered along the banks, their branches creating pockets of shade.
“When I was a kid and things got too loud in my head, I'd go find water,” Dusty said, picking his way down the bank. “Rivers, lakes, whatever was closest. Something about moving water makes everything else quiet down.”
I followed him to a flat spot where the creek widened into a shallow pool. The sound of water flowing over rocks filled the space between us, drowning out the buzzing that had been in my head since I woke up.
“Sit,” Dusty said, dropping down on a sun-warmed rock.
I sat, careful with my shoulder. The stone was smooth under me, heated by the morning sun.
Warm enough to seep through my jeans and into muscles that hadn't relaxed in days.
Dusty pulled off his shoes and socks, rolled up his jeans, and stepped into the creek.
The water came up to mid-calf, clear enough to see the rocky bottom.
“You should try this,” he said, turning to look at me. “Water's cold but it feels good.”
I pulled off my own shoes and socks, moving stiff because everything hurt in that bone-deep way that wasn't about my shoulder.
When I stepped into the creek, the cold hit like a shock, sharp enough to cut through the fog in my head.
My feet found purchase on smooth stones, and I stood there letting the current flow around my ankles.
“See?” Dusty moved deeper into the pool where the water came up to his knees. “Sometimes the best thing you can do is just stand in moving water and let it remind you that you're still here.”
I waded out to where he stood, the cold water numbing my feet and calves.
The current wasn't strong, but it was constant, pulling at my legs just enough to make me focus on keeping my balance.
Above us, oak leaves rustled in the breeze.
A dragonfly hovered near the bank, its wings catching the light like stained glass.
“This is what you do when you can't handle things?” I asked. “Wade around in creeks?”
“Among other things.” He grinned, that easy smile that made my heart beat faster. “I also paint, do yoga, take long drives through the desert. Whatever it takes to get out of my head for a while.”
“Does it work?”
“Most of the time.” He crouched down, dipping his hands in the water. “The trick is finding what works for you. For some people, it's movement. For others, it's stillness. You just have to experiment until you find your thing.”
“What if I don't have a thing?”
“Everyone has a thing. You just haven't found yours yet.” He splashed water at me, playful. “But standing here right now, not having a panic attack? That's a start.”
He was right. My breathing had evened out, my hands had stopped shaking, and the tightness in my chest had eased to something manageable. The cold water anchored me, gave me something concrete to focus on besides the chaos in my head.
“Come here,” Dusty said, his voice shifting to something lower, more intimate.
I moved closer, careful of my footing on the slick stones. When I reached him, he cupped water in his hands and let it run through his fingers.
“What are you doing?”
“Baptizing you.” His smile was teasing but his eyes were serious. “Fresh start. New beginning. All that symbolic shit.”
“I don't need symbolism. I need—” But the words died when he reached up, his wet hands gentle as they moved through my hair. Water trickled down my neck and shoulders, cool against sun-warmed skin.
I closed my eyes, letting myself feel it. The weight of his hands. The slide of water down my spine. The sound of the creek constant and soothing beneath everything else. For the first time in days, maybe longer, I wasn't bracing against sensation. I was just letting it happen.
When I opened my eyes, Dusty was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Not the practiced calm of the yoga instructor or the careful concern of the last two days. Something more naked than that. More real.
“What do you need?” he asked, and the question felt like it was about more than this moment.
I wanted to say something flip, something easy that would let us both off the hook. But standing here in the creek with him, water flowing around us and sunlight filtering through oak leaves, I couldn't hide behind easy answers.
“I need to feel like my body is mine again,” I said. “I need you to help me remember what good feels like. Not pills-good or numb-good, but actually good. Present. Alive.” I paused, searching for the right words. “I need to feel like I'm not broken. And I need it to be you.”
Something shifted in his expression. “Cord—”
“I know this is complicated. I know you're leaving and I'm a mess.” My throat tightened. “But I'm asking anyway.”
He cupped my face in his hands, water still dripping from his fingers. “You're not broken. Hurting. But not broken.”
“Then prove it to me,” I said. “Please.”
We just stood there looking at each other, the current pulling at our legs, the world narrowed to just this, him and me and the choice hanging between us.
Then he kissed me.
The kiss started gentle but turned hungry fast. Like we'd both been holding back, and the dam had finally broken. My good arm went around his waist, pulling him closer until our bodies were pressed together, water swirling around our legs.
“We should go back to the cabin,” he murmured against my mouth.
“Why? No one's out here.”
“Cord—”
“I need this.” The desperation in my voice surprised me. “I need to feel something besides panic and pain. Please.”
He pulled back enough to meet my eyes, searching my face. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him because he nodded. “Okay. But not in the water. Come on.”
He led me out of the creek to where limestone rocks jutted out from the bank, flat surfaces worn smooth by centuries of weather. The stone was warm under my hands as I braced myself, still dripping creek water. Dusty moved behind me, his body heat a contrast to the cold water soaking my jeans.
“Tell me if your shoulder hurts,” he said, hands sliding under my wet shirt.
“It doesn't hurt.” Not exactly true, but the ache was distant, manageable. Everything else was louder—the sound of water over stone, birds calling from the oaks, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
“Off,” he murmured against my throat, and I didn't hesitate. The shirt came off in one motion, and his eyes traveled over my chest like he was seeing art for the first time.
“Fuck, look at you.” His voice was rough with want. “The way the light hits your shoulders...”
I pulled at his shirt, needing to see him too. When it was gone, I ran my hands over his lean torso, feeling the play of muscle under tanned skin. He was beautiful in that effortless way that made me want to trace every line with my tongue.
“You look like a fucking renaissance sculpture,” he said, fingers trailing down my stomach where a thin line of dark hair disappeared beneath my waistband.
“Yeah? What does that make you?”
“The artist who gets to worship it.”